


After Asculum

by rokubiraijuu



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuuin no Tsurugi | Fire Emblem: Binding Blade
Genre: Gen, fun fact i haven't even gotten to this chapter yet, help i have a lot of feelings, other characters make a brief cameo but it's mostly those three
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2016-06-28
Packaged: 2018-07-18 17:38:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7324438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rokubiraijuu/pseuds/rokubiraijuu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A re-imagining of the battle for the Temple of Seals against Bern's main army, told from the perspective of the young wyvern rider who chose to follow his heart instead of his blood, and the sacrifice he and his sister made for their decision. ( The Binding Blade: Chapter 21 )</p>
            </blockquote>





	After Asculum

              Normally, he is not permitted here. In his first weeks with the Lycian Alliance Army, he had assumed it was because the General and the others still distrusted him, even with Guinevere’s good word. Bitter as it stung, Zeiss couldn’t say he blamed them; though on paper they were now comrades in arms and he did all he could to swallow the bad taste in his mouth that came over him whenever he found himself at spear-point with warriors of his own country, it was not enough to completely abolish the underlying suspicion that he was from Bern and could, at any moment, betray them. Even he was not so naïve to be unable to see that. It wasn’t only him, either; though she had been with them longer, some of the soldiers still viewed his sister with the same wariness. And some, though few, thanks to General Roy’s trust, even now spoke darkly of the princess herself, protesting that she was simply culling them all into an elaborate trap set by her brother. The Sacaean troops in particular treated them with venomous courtesy, full of surreptitious sidelong glances whenever he walked past a group of them huddled about a small fire and skittish, fearful whinnies from their steeds at the sight and smell of his wyvern. Though he wishes they could get along, Zeiss has no illusions about what Bern had done to their people.

              The truth becomes clearer, however, now that he stands among the army leaders in the weather-worn “war tent”, as he had heard it referred to by some of the troops. Here, the air is solemn, quiet, often frayed with tension. And he, a mere wyvern knight of Bern, is being asked to offer counsel to the likes of great generals and war veterans, some of whom he has only heard through tales. From Ilia to the North come Zealot, leader of the mercenary knights, and his wife Juno, a former squad captain of pegasus knights, and the Kutolah clan chief and legendary warrior Dayan represents the nomad troopers of Sacae. The Alliance Army’s greatest allies, however, are the powerful forces of Etruria, rivaling Bern in size and strength, and before him stand the trio of their elite generals handpicked by the Etrurian king, leaders of one of the continent’s largest countries chosen for their skill – the Knight General Perceval, stoic and unperturbed in his gold-embroidered armor, Cecilia the Mage General resplendent in silver, and the imposing Great General Douglas, wicked, gleaming axe planted blade-down firmly on the ground in a position of guarded peace, a stony frown on his bearded face. Around the central table with its splayed, frayed map peppered with pins and makeshift war pieces also stand Klein, a lower-ranked Etrurian general, Yodel, a bishop of Etruria’s influential Church of St. Elimine, and of course General Roy and his advisor, the Pherese veteran knight Marcus. To the young leader’s left is the gentle princess Lilina, and to her left, Bernese princess Guinevere with Miredy, leader of her personal guard even away from home, poised silently behind her.

              “Tomorrow, we cross into Bernese territory,” Marcus explains, though as the terrain has become rougher with each passing day of marching, this is no secret to anyone. He moves the war piece with the decorated flag – Roy’s position – into the rocky plains of Bern’s land. “We will be facing the main forces of Zephiel’s army, and this will no doubt be our toughest engagement yet. Princess Guinevere has said she will guide us to the door of the Temple of Seals, with the Sword of Seals lies.”

              “The Sword of Seals . . . ” Roy whispers. “Guinevere, you’re sure this will let us defeat the Demon Dragon?”

              “It was the very sword used in The Scouring,” she replies softly. “This is your best chance to kill the dragon . . . and stop my brother.”

              “Zephiel knows we’re coming,” Douglas says, his voice low, gruff, full of authority. “He’ll be waiting with his strongest men to stop us.”

              “Actually, my scouts have reported that the king himself is not present among the forces,” the Sacaean chief cuts in. “But the land ahead is littered with soldiers, mostly wyvern knights and cavalry. One of my men says he saw a few men in red hooded cloaks as well.”

              “The dragons,” Roy mutters. “Those dragons sealed in human form that Niime mentioned.” Everyone gathered about the table knows of their fearsome power, and to hear that more of them wait ahead does little for morale.

              “Their numbers are high, particularly in the area immediately surrounding the Temple of Seals. There is no way to avoid an engagement, especially with as many wyvern knights as they have swarming the place, but my nomads will be able to handle them with ease.”

              “Your men will be crucial to our attack, then,” Roy says. “Yours and General Klein’s archers. I’ll need you to stay behind the Etrurian lines and shoot down as many of their wyverns as you can to make the way easier.” As he positions the war pieces on the map, archers assembled in a thick cluster behind the armored knights and cavalry, Zeiss realizes that, though he has only been with the Alliance Army for some short months, already this General Roy has grown from the young man he had first met in Aquleia. Then, already, he had become accustomed to leading, but it seems that as they’ve drawn closer to the confrontation with Bern, he’s taken to the forefront of command more and more. Despite his initial misgivings about the Lycian cause, Zeiss can see why Guinevere and Miredy trust him.

              Sliding the enemy flag war piece in front of the location of the Temple of Seals, Perceval glances up at Dayan. “Did your men say who was in charge, if not the king himself?”

              “A yellow-haired man,” the chief replies, “in a great suit of armor and carrying a large throwing axe.”

              Miredy gives voice to Zeiss’ immediate thoughts. “General Murdock,” she says, glancing to her brother. “It has to be him. Zephiel wouldn’t trust anyone else to such a task.” Zeiss’ stomach sinks as he thinks of engaging General Murdock himself in battle; his prowess in war is famed and hailed throughout Bern; once, he had been the head General of the three Wyvern Lords before rising in rank even past that, earning the personal trust of King Zephiel himself. It’s almost impossible to imagine anyone facing him and his axe in combat and surviving, he thinks, but . . . these soldiers before him are the elite of Etruria and Lycia; maybe there is a chance they could survive, even win. “If the area is covered by wyvern knights,” Miredy continues, stepping forward, “then it’s likely that a leader of the wyvern forces is in the area too. Did you see anyone like that?”

              Not a waver or a falter in a voice betrays her, but Zeiss looks wordlessly at his sister, well aware of what she is thinking. It’s something he’s been dreading too since his departure at Aquleia, and yet he knows that by choosing to follow his sister and Roy, he would inevitably come to a day when he would have to face Galle. Still, he prays that tomorrow isn’t that day, that such a day will never come. His gaze falls again to his own gloved hands; he still couldn’t understand – Galle had helped him escape Narcian’s ploy to frame him. Why hadn’t he come too? “Not that my men could see,” Dayan answers. “It seems that Murdock is the only one stationed in command.”

              He breathes an inaudible sigh of relief, and can see something similar in Miredy’s face, too.

              “We will be entering the area from these plains, attacking from the northwest,” Marcus continues then, moving the remainder of their white war pieces into place. “Lord Roy, perhaps we should cover the archers at our flanks with armored soldiers; the wyvern knights can cover great distances and strike our unprotected rear, yes?” He looks up to Miredy for confirmation, but she shakes her head.

              “I have worked all my life as the princess’ personal guard. For the movements of the wyvern knights, my brother would be more knowledgeable than I.”

              All eyes suddenly turn to him, then, and Zeiss has rarely ever felt such pressure. As a soldier who until mere months ago had fought in these very battalions himself, it’s true he is the most familiar with their attack patterns out of anyone in the tent. Still, he can’t help but wonder – what if he’s wrong? After all, he had fought directly under General Narcian, not Murdock, and if their strategies are different, it could spell disaster for all of them. Uncertain, he glances to Miredy, who urges him forward with a subtle nod. So this is why she had asked him to come to this meeting.

              “Well, boy?” Douglas rumbles. “Do you have any ideas or not?” He can feel a dozen pairs of eyes burning into him as he stares at the map, all of them waiting for him to show them that he can help them, an ex-knight – no, still a knight of Bern, only helping the Lycian Alliance so that he could follow Princess Guinevere and restore beauty and nobility to his country and free it from Zephiel’s bloodshed.

              “Where – Where exactly were the wyvern knights positioned when you saw them?” he asks Dayan, feeling uncomfortable addressing a Sacaean chief as though they’re on the same footing. But the older man hardly hesitates, turning to look at one of his scouts beside him, a nomad Zeiss recognizes from around camp and the battlefield.

              If there’s any hint of animosity towards him or his people, the young warrior disguises it well. “A small squadron of them guards this rocky hill,” Shin replies in quiet monotone, moving one of the enemy pieces onto a patch of rugged terrain in the center of the area. “Another here.” Also a rocky hilltop, this time further to the southwest. “There was movement here too, in the woods, so probably a third one here.” Some ways to the north of the Temple. Carefully, Zeiss examines where Shin had placed the enemy riders, evenly spaced apart, they form a wall between the Temple and where the Lycian forces would be entering. As he guessed, these troops had been stationed in areas of heavy cover and mountainous ground, difficult for non-aerial soldiers to traverse but easy for wyverns. The ones in the center of the map and those in the northern woods would likely attack their front, perhaps their side; he’s somewhat more concerned about the riders further to the southwest, who could sneak up on them and strike their rear if they don’t move carefully.

              All this he relays slowly to the others, thinking as he speaks, moving the pieces to demonstrate where he imagines they might strike. “I’m worried about one thing, though . . . from the numbers, it doesn’t look like these are full battalions.”

              Marcus’ brow creases. “What are you saying?”

              “Reinforcements,” General Cecilia says with a frown. “Maybe they’ve got other riders hiding, waiting to ambush.”

              “It’s possible,” Zeiss agrees. “If they’re planning reinforcements, then I think they’d probably arrive close to protected places like the ones the riders are stationed in now. Mountains especially. Maybe these ones to the south . . . ” he indicates a range of peaks to the west of the Temple grounds, “but these mountains to the north of this village here are also a good option, especially if they want to trap us in a pincer when we get to this path here – or this one here.”

              “Either way, if we’re fighting these forces in the center or the ones to the east, we’d get trapped if more riders appear in the mountains,” Roy muses, nudging around a few more pieces as his brow furrows. “Whichever way we go, we’re going to have a hard time.”

              “I’d bet good money that Murdock has reinforcements hiding in these northern mountains,” Zeiss says, feeling a little more confident now that it appears his knowledge has, in fact, been helpful. “He’s known for being the smartest General in Bern; he’d see that we’d be trapped either way.”

              “We have no other choice but to proceed, regardless.” The Knight General Perceval looks to Douglas, then Roy. “I suggest protecting our rear with forces just as strong as the advancing front. Archers in the middle. If we’re going to be trapped either way, we better be as prepared for it as we can.”

              Roy thinks for a moment, eyes flicking over the map. Zeiss can see the concentration and calculations that must be going on in his mind. “Right. That sounds like a plan. In that case, General Douglas, you and I will lead the front as usual. Klein, I want you behind us, protected by the armored knights. Then General Cecilia, can you follow with your mages? The wyvern riders will be weak against magic too. General Perceval and Zealot, your cavalry will manage the rear guard. Chief Dayan and his men will be riding with you.”

              “A sound strategy,” Marcus says, looking at the rearranged war pieces. “Alternatively, what do you think of dividing our forces and -- ”

              “No,” Roy insists with a shake of his head. “We don’t know where the reinforcements might attack for sure. It’s too much risk. This is Bern’s main army; any loss here and we might not get another chance.”

 

* * *

 

              Recoil impact shudders through the cords of Zeiss’ arm as his silver lance plunges through the chain mail of a Bernese archer, crimson spurting along the length of the shaft as the man seizes, gurgling, before collapsing to the ground as he yanks the lance from his body, coated in the slick of another corpse. His gut still clenches at the sight of the dark colors, the crest of Bern now torn on the dead man’s chest. These are his people. But he swallows down the rising guilt as he has for months; a battlefield isn’t the place to hesitate. Clamping down hard with his legs, he holds tight to the reins as Rubley rears, a gaping screech and slashing claws deterring the charge of an enemy cavalier; the horse rears, and before the soldier can steady and launch his javelin, Zeiss pulls Rubley into the air with a yell. The ground peels away beneath him in a rush of wind buffeting his hair, and the expanse of the battlefield once more widens in his vision.

              At the point of their front, Douglas and his armored knights stand an impenetrable fortress against the onslaught of Bernese wyvern knights. Neither side gives easily, but the wyvern knights are thinner in number and are slowly being diminished, the screeches and screams of dying men and dragons forcing Zeiss to turn his head away. He’s avoided direct combat with the enemy riders as much as he can so far; many of them are faces and names he knows, has fought alongside before. He guides Rubley into a low spinning dive out of the way of some arrows that sail in an arc up towards him, and swoops low to the ground above a ridge, wings spread wide. An enemy Bishop, not expecting to be charged, is knocked out of the way, tumbling into the trees below with a cut-off cry of alarm.

              Suddenly, an immense bout of flame roars past just above Rubley’s left wing and the wyvern gives a startled screech, just avoiding having his wing scorched. Zeiss pulls him back into a narrow turn, heart pounding. _What was that!_ An enemy elfire?

              Rising up from the plains he’d just flown over is the enormous bulk of a scarlet dragon that hadn’t been there moments before, its scales the color of shifting magma. The creature takes a step towards him, ground beneath it rumbling with its weight, and his grip tightens on the shaft of his lance, though his hand trembles with fear. The dragon opens its mouth, and he finds himself staring down a vast tunnel that could easily swallow Rubley’s head as the creature roars, foul breath washing over him in a vicious wind. These . . . he’s had yet to encounter one himself, but he’s heard talk of them rippling through the camp since he’s joined the Lycian Army – the dragons of Bern. Not anything like the wyverns native to their land, but something far more powerful; the dragons in human form. It divides him from the rest of the surrounding combat, sending soldiers Bernese and Lycian alike scattering in terror. Though his legs shake where they grip onto Rubley’s saddle, he refuses to run. _I might die here_ , he thinks to himself as the dragon gives another roar, then the air around him begins to ripple as the temperature rises.

              With a yell that’s part battle cry, part terror, Zeiss pulls hard on the reins, swerving Rubley out of the way of another jet of flame. Behind him, trees blaze from the attack, and he grunts, glancing to his shoulder that now feels red-hot with pain. The flame had come close enough to melt his armor, and he curses, frantically taking a hand off the reins to unbuckle his shoulder guard. He’d rather risk being hit than having metal melt onto his skin. The straps are scorched from the heat, hot to the touch, but somehow he manages to get it off, and the late afternoon breeze washes against sweat-damp, burned skin, making it sting. With the dragon steadying itself from its attack, he takes the chance, heart thudding as he urges Rubley into a charge. Thankfully, it’s hard to miss such a large target, but his silver lance barely sinks past the creature’s scales and seems only to anger rather than hurt it. He yanks on the reins again and the next jet of fire just barely glances the tip of Rubley’s tail, earning a high screech of pain from his steed as it rises higher into the air. Again, he curses under his breath, starting to feel hopeless. What can he do against something like this? All he can hope for is that he can utilize his smaller size to evade its attack, but the dragon is surprisingly fast for its size and he can only maneuver so much with a sheer mountain cliff to his north and burning trees to his back.

              Another roaring flame, another near miss, though he’s sure he’s lost a few hairs to the heat that passes just over his head. How long can he keep up this running tactic?

Then he hears the dragon scream, the ground trembling violently beneath its sudden thrashing, and he looks up, but in all the commotion doesn’t spot anything that could have –

              “Zeiss!” It’s Miredy, soaring over the dragon’s head, her own wyvern speeding over to help him. Behind her in the saddle is something yellow-ish that releases another detonating burst of fire magic which strikes the writhing dragon with an explosion. The serpent roars again, and Zeiss swears that the mountains themselves quiver with the sound, before it collapses to the ground, flattening brush and sending up a spray of dust and rock. And then, in a brilliant swirl of flame, it vanishes as quickly as it had appeared, and Zeiss alights Rubley on the ground next to the body of a smoking, charred man, his red hood and garment in tatters. Grimacing at the sight, he looks over to Miredy who lands in front of him, and realizes that the mage she’d brought with her is Lugh, a young but accomplished sage in the army, elfire tome in his arms.

              He slides off Trifinne’s back with a pleased smile. “Those dragons are weak to magic, you know,” he says brightly. “You shouldn’t have gone after it with just a lance. Good thing I got here in time.”

              Smiling weakly, Zeiss nods, still shaking. “Yes. Thank you for saving me.” His first encounter with one of the Bernese dragons . . . if Zephiel is hiding a lot more of those, defeating him would be harder than he’d ever imagined.

              “Are you okay? Are you hurt?” Miredy asks, reaching out to inspect him, and he pulls away slightly, not wanting her to worry.

              “Yeah. It didn’t get me,” he lies slightly. “I’m fine.”

              The look she gives him is a little doubtful, but before she can press further or he can insist, a shout comes from nearby, along with the sound of thudding hooves over the din of battle. “Lord Roy! . . . Lord Roy!” Both wyvern knights turn their heads to see a cavalier from the rear guard galloping past, posture stiff with urgency. “Enemy reinforcements! A battalion of wyvern knights to the north . . . !”

              That’s all they can catch before the chaos of battle swallows the rest of his words as he continues to ride to the front, and Zeiss’ eyes widen. Now? But they’re almost at the Temple! He had been hoping that either Murdock hadn’t thought as far as he’d anticipated or something had gone wrong for Bern along the way and there wouldn’t be any reinforcements, but he should have known better. Now they’re being attacked at both ends, but at least it’s what he’d expected; the mountains to the north had been used to provide cover for hidden reinforcements.

              “Zeiss!” His head snaps up, and when he sees Miredy looking above and past him, he turns around. A squad of twenty or thirty more wyvern knights are rising over the tops of the burning trees and hills behind him, and he curses sharply, turning Rubley around to face them. More of them here, too! So Murdock had been waiting for the Lycian Army to come this far and then use these reinforcements to strike their flanks and rear, huh? Good thing he’s here.

              Taking to the air again, he rises to meet them, Miredy with Lugh beside him. “Think we can take them all on our own?” Lugh asks, fearlessly determined. Zeiss has to admire the kid’s resolve; he doesn’t think he’s ever seen someone so young so unshaken by battle.

              “Just use your magic,” Miredy orders, readying her own lance. “Others will come soon; let’s take out as many as we can.” In the air, at least, they would have a better fighting vantage than if they were foot soldiers, but they still had to be careful to avoid being surrounded. “Zeiss, don’t be reckless!”

              He ignores her, charging at the incoming squadron with a yell, lance raised. At least, he thinks, these men are wearing covered helmets, and he can’t see their faces. It’s easier to pretend he doesn’t know them that way. His first strike clips the shoulder of a passing knight, knocking him off balance in his saddle. His wyvern screeches with alarm, and in the moment of disarray, Zeiss clobbers him with the shaft of his lance and sends him plummeting out of his saddle and down through the air. These riders have to be still new! Maybe for some of them, this is their first real experience in battle. Swallowing down the tightness in his gut, he grits his teeth and turns to face the next one.

              A blur cuts through the air behind him and he hears the gurgle of another felled knight mere meters from him. “Watch your back, Zeiss!” Miredy scolds him.

              A burst of flame and a “take that!” from Lugh sends another wyvern and rider tumbling from the sky. Zeiss rushes to engage the man in front of him riding a larger wyvern and wearing heavier armor – this must be the squadron leader! – their lances clashing with a harsh scream and bright sparks. Clenching his jaw, he pulls back, then lunges in again, hoping to catch the other off guard by aiming for his chest plate to knock him off balance. But his opponent is clearly more skilled than those around him and he shifts out of the way quickly, lashing out with the pole of his lance. It clangs off Zeiss’ thankfully still protected shoulder, forcing him to draw Rubley back out of range as the other man spins his weapon in his hand for a new grip and pulls it back into ready position. He’s about to go in for a renewed strike when an arrow sings through the air between them, startling both him and the enemy captain, and both look to the ground where a Lycian archer stands, nocking his bow again. Beside him, a familiar head of blond hair runs up from the bushes. “Captain Miredy! We’ll handle these fliers; General Perceval needs your help at the rear!”

              It’s Klein and a troop of his archers, and already the wyvern reinforcements are beginning to hesitate, seeing a line of bows aimed at them. “All right!” Miredy calls back, swooping past. “Come on, Zeiss!” He’s reluctant, wanting to finish his battle with the squad captain, but pulls Rubley to follow after Miredy and Lugh. They fly towards the rear of the forces, passing steel clanging off steel, screaming horses, and flashes of magic exchanged on either side. The closer they get to the rear, the more dire the situation clearly becomes. Even combined, the Ilian and Etrurian cavalry led by Zealot and Perceval are struggling; the wyvern riders that had come from the north number far more than the mere couple dozen that Zeiss had just faced. _Where are the Sacaean nomads?_ he wonders frantically, scanning the ground for signs of their dark horses. Then he spots them, archers trying to notch their bows and fire at the overhead wyverns, but the riders are purposely flying too low to be shot, talons and claws passing just above the ducking heads of the nomads, distracting them from being able to attack. A sound strategy against archers, one he remembers being taught, but he can’t recall who had told him about it. It hadn’t been in training with the rest of his squad or from General Narcian; maybe he’d read about it somewhere?

              He sees one of the wyverns catch a nomad off guard from behind and the dragon’s claws snatch the flailing man from his saddle, lifting him and dragging him through the fray for many meters, his screams drowned out or silenced by the chaos. When the rider rises back into the air, his wyvern’s claws are empty, but Zeiss is sure that the unfortunate nomad had been killed on impact along the way or, at best, heavily mutilated.

              “All men, to lances!” he hears Perceval’s voice echo from further ahead, a tall head of blond hair atop a white stallion. “Point them skyward, aim at their undersides!” He’s trying to force them back into the air so the Sacaeans can shoot. Zeiss pulls Rubley into the air too, hoping that his distinctive black armor and red hair will keep them from aiming for him. He and Miredy had decorated their wyverns’ breastplates with clear Lycian emblems for this exact purpose; seeing as they’re the only two riders in the whole of the army, sometimes the archers forget about them. As he raises his lance to attack a rider in front of him, he glimpses Miredy out of the corner of his eye, soaring by with a Sacaean archer behind her on Trifinne’s back, firing at the riders from the air. Where had Lugh gone? He doesn’t have time to think about it.

              The enemy wyvern lord turns fully to engage him, but his sword has only a fraction of the reach of Zeiss’ silver lance, and after a brief resistance, he falls with a choked spasm, Zeiss’s lance tip tearing from the gaping hole in his throat as he slides limply from his saddle. After inspecting a shallow slice on his arm to make sure it isn’t something worth worrying about, he decides that taking each of the riders on one by one would take too long with too much risk. Guiding Rubley back into a dive, he searches the sea of men and weapons below, trying to find an archer to mimic his sister’s idea.

              “En guard.”

              Tensing, Zeiss barely turns Rubley around fast enough to parry a sudden lance aiming straight for him; it’s sheer instinct and muscle memory that enable him to knock it aside, and its wielder doubles his wyvern back through the air. Zeiss’ stomach drops before he even sees the other’s face; the voice and the sight of that distinctive large dragon is enough. “Sir Galle!” he calls, grip tightening on his reins. Rubley, recognizing his former mentor, gives a low, growling call of greeting to the other wyvern, but there’s no response.

              Hovering above the fray, the dark-haired rider regards him levelly, his expression – as always – hard to read. “Zeiss. You seem well.”

              So it had been Galle leading the northern reinforcements . . . Zeiss grits his teeth, feeling his chest clench tight again, a lump in his throat. He had hoped, prayed for so long that he would never have to face him like this, the man who had taught him all he knew about how to fight and what to fight for, who had saved him from General Narcian at the risk of his own life. Again, Zeiss can’t help but wonder – _why hadn’t he come too?_ If not for him, then for Miredy, at least? “Sir Galle . . . ” His voice is just nearly swallowed by the sounds of battle, and he raises it along with his gaze. “Must we fight?”

              Opposite him, Galle readies his lance for another strike, and Zeiss grips his saddle tighter. “Yes. We must.” He doesn’t know if he can face his mentor in battle; no, he’s almost sure he’ll lose.

              “I don’t want to fight you!” he calls, lowering his lance. “You’re the last person -- ”

              Suddenly, Galle lunges. “Don’t be such a child!” The point of his killer lance scrapes Zeiss’ unguarded shoulder, centimeters from his neck. Shaking, Zeiss yanks the reins, pulling Rubley into a higher ascent, trying to escape, but his mentor easily follows. “Did you only have so much resolve when you left Bern?” he demands sharply. “Do you regret your decision to fight against Bern?”

              Even though he had always been stern, Zeiss has rarely heard Galle speak to him in such a way, as though each word is sharper than his spear point. He winces, but shakes his head. “No! My – my mind is set . . . ” Turning again, he faces him, having to yell to be heard against the winds of the higher altitudes. “Even now, it hurts to point my blade towards Bern, but I believe with all my heart that the path I chose wasn’t a mistake!”

              Galle draws his lance close in to his side for another attack, eyes narrowing. “Then cast away your hesitation. Focus on crushing those who block the path that you have chosen. No matter who it is.”

              “Sir Galle -- ”

              This time when he attacks, Zeiss expects it and swerves Rubley out of the way, lifting his arm to put his strength into stabbing his lance down. But he’s forgotten how fast Galle is, and steel flashes through the spot he had been in long after he’s dodged out of the way. “Zeiss.” Breathing hard, worn from the hours of combat since the late morning, the young rider swivels once more to face him. “Are you not a knight of Bern?”

              “ . . . Of course I am,” he replies.

              “Good. Then face me, and have no mercy.” A third time he rushes him. Zeiss grits his teeth, and when the lance tip passes by his side, he quickly pulls Rubley around onto his back, gripping as hard as he can with his legs to stay in the saddle as he hangs upside down for that brief moment, thrusting his lance upwards. It’s a maneuver Galle himself had taught him, but unfortunately that means he’s well acquainted with it himself, and despite its large size, his wyvern evades the attack and bears down on top of him, snapping at Rubley’s tail. Screeching, Rubley takes several long seconds – agonizing ones for Zeiss as he feels his grip on the saddle slipping – to escape from out under the larger wyvern’s weight and flip right side up again. But then Galle is upon him within a second, and the force of his lance’s impact knocks the breath from his lungs, pain searing through his chest with shocking force. He feels himself falling, sees, distantly, Rubley turning in alarm, jaws open in a screech of panic at the loss of the familiar weight on his back. He dives in pursuit, but it feels very distant to Zeiss, who for a couple seconds can swear he is not falling, but simply suspended in weightless air.

              Sensation jolts painfully back into him once more, however, when Rubley’s claws hook onto him, and he can’t entirely bite back a scream as they pierce his skin just above where Galle’s lance had driven in just beneath his collar. The pain itself has his head swimming, black spots darting before his eyes, and then somehow he’s on the ground; there’s rough dirt against his legs and side and it hurts so terribly he can hardly breathe. It reminds him dimly of the first time he’d sustained a heavy battle injury during his early years as a wyvern knight and had passed out on the battlefield from blood loss.

              The injury had torn a gaping hole in his leg and he had spent almost a week in healing, unable to walk for even days after that. Galle and Miredy had visited him every day, his sister bringing him food and water while Galle changed his bandages and inspected the healers’ work. He had been well-cared for by the healers, and had later learned from Miredy that it was because Galle had used his position and authority to pull a couple strings and earn him a bit more attention than would have been paid to an ordinary soldier. As a result, there had been no lasting pain or weakness from such an ugly wound, not even so much as a scar. After several months, it’d all seemed more like a bad dream.

              A bad dream, like if he closed his eyes, he would wake up again to the strangely comforting cold of his thin barracks bed, not comforting because it was cold but because despite the harsh, daily training regimen and the tough, mostly tasteless meals, he woke up every day one step closer to becoming a stronger knight under the mentorship of one of the Bern’s most revered warriors, with a sister who could be infuriating but who loved him, and who was one of the people he swore to protect. He was able to see them both every day, and he knew that that alone made him luckier than many of the men he trained with. And in a moment, a knock would come at his door, usually Galle, there to wake him for his pre-dawn training, and he would try his luck for a few more minutes like always . . .

              A rough shake to his injured shoulder and he grunts, hissing from the dull pain. “Hey! No falling asleep or you’re dead. Wake up, you fool!”

              Blurry vision eventually clears as he weakly mumbles something even he doesn’t hear. Long blonde hair . . . a stick . . .  no, a staff? Then he recognizes the face of one of the troubadours. “Cl -- ?” He breaks into a sharp, gasping cry of pain as the muscles of his chest seize and he doubles over, sweating, but then the agony gradually eases.

              “There, now you shouldn’t die.” Before he can thank her, she’s running away, pulling herself back onto her horse and kicking into a gallop, likely off to tend to others. Mustering his gathering strength, Zeiss looks around him. A familiar screech catches his attention, and he turns to see Rubley fending off a swordsman to his right, bleeding from a long tear in his left wing.

              “Rubley!” The sight of his wyvern snaps him back to reality and he drags himself to his feet, fishing for his lance some feet away and using it to prop himself up. But before he can hurry to his partner’s aid, the swordsman seizes with a half-scream and collapses to the side, a pair of arrows protruding from his back, blood bubbling from their punctures beneath his armor. In the distance, the Lycian sniper leaves to pick off more stragglers. Leaning heavily against Rubley’s side, Zeiss gasps for breath, looking around. To his surprise, the field is much emptier than before. The ground is littered with corpses from both armies but there aren’t many Bernese soldiers left standing. Some ways away, a few Lycian cavaliers are slaughtering the last wyvern knights, their dragons already dead. The sky above the landscape of carnage is a fitting dark orange, as if it too has been set aflame. How long had he been unconscious?

              Then he remembers everything that happened. Galle! He turns around so quickly his head spins for a moment, and he clutches it with a groan as Rubley noses him with a concerned, weak chirp. Where’s Galle? Had he -- ?

              Suddenly, the sound of clashing weapons in the near distance. He turns again, spots the long-haired, dark clad figure. In his hand is his killer lance, his wyvern nowhere to be seen. He lunges, attacking – “Miredy!” Zeiss’ heart lurches and he stumbles forward, but catches his foot on the helmet of a dead soldier and tumbles to the ground over the corpse. Undeterred, he struggles to his feet again, staggering his way clumsily over the scattered bodies and weapons. She – no, she couldn’t be fighting him! She shouldn’t have to do this. Why? Why was Galle fighting her! Why was she forcing him to fight her! He watches their lances collide again, watches Galle give his momentum to unbalance her, then lash out with his weapon. She manages to parry with the pole of her own, but at the cost of her balance, and falls. “No!” He’s getting closer; he’s almost there – he can –

              Galle lets Miredy get to her feet again before he readies himself for another attack. Zeiss sees his lips move for a little bit, but can’t hear what he’s saying. “ _Miredy!_ ” He sees her bow her head briefly, then look back up at Galle who stands in battle stance, lance poised but not yet striking. Once more Galle says something, and Zeiss is just close enough to hear Miredy whisper his name in return. Then the great dragon lord rushes forward with such suddenness that Zeiss stops in his tracks a mere few steps away, only able to watch in horror.

              Galle’s spear point passes just shy of her. Miredy sidesteps out of the way.

              Her lance comes up. She knows he’s fast enough to leap back and avoid her. He doesn’t, or chooses not to.

              It’s Miredy’s scream that rends the sky when she sees her silver lance buried shaft-deep in his chest, and when a moment later Galle falls to his knees, she does too, reaching out with shaking, bloody hands to cradle his face, a sob wrenching from her lips. “Galle. Galle, no, no . . . no, Galle, no -- ”

              With visible effort, he lifts a violently quaking hand, rests it heavily on her arm. With his back turned to him, Zeiss doesn’t see the way his dirt and blood-stained face softens into a smile, but he does hear the words he breathes with the last beats of his heart.

              “I . . . have no regrets . . . Zeiss . . . Take care . . . of Miredy . . . ”

              “Galle -- ” Miredy’s fingers curl painfully into his hair, but his hand slips from her arm and he tips forward onto her, a solid weight. “Galle! _Galle!”_ One arm clutches around his back, the other pushing his hair back, searching frantically for signs of life. Even from a few feet away, Zeiss can see she’s trembling, tears streaking tracks through the blood on her face before she curls over him with a scream of his name that cuts off abruptly into violent, hiccupping sobs.

              An aching hollowness stretches open in his chest as Zeiss stands there, his own hands quivering, staring blindly at the flattened grass under his feet. Beside him, Rubley tilts his head back and gives a long, mournful screech. Somewhere far away, as if in answer, the Lycian horn blows three notes in victory, but the low, drawn-out bellows sound more like a dirge.

**Author's Note:**

> written for the art exchange with my best friend! this week's prompt was "together". clearly, i should never have been an english major because i apparently don't understand what 'together' means.
> 
> obviously, it means lots of angst, right? no? oh well.
> 
> this is for all the evil people out there who made miredy kill galle in this chapter. which will include me because i'm awful and like pain or something.


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